


starwicks, atmospheric

by Yeoun (Bakagami)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakagami/pseuds/Yeoun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>jongdae remembers and remembers, remembers until his memories dilute his present, how luhan was the perfect one. is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	starwicks, atmospheric

**Author's Note:**

> adopted prompt #196 from round 2 of [chenpionships](http://chenpionships.livejournal.com/); “you keep telling me to be glad for what we had while we had it. that the brightest flame burns quickest. which means you saw us as a candle. and i saw us as the sun.”
> 
> reposted from [livejournal](http://yeoun.livejournal.com/1447.html). unbeta-ed.

Jongdae remembers the late night dates, city lights and frosted fingertips. He remembers the soft kisses pressed against his skin, the dead promises he willingly believed. He remembers Luhan burning across his sky—bright, unyielding, ephemeral. 

Sleepless nights pass and Luhan is unforgettable. The way he blows through Jongdae’s life, suddenly and erratically, appearing in his vision one day when he wakes up from a nap, blocking the sun. The way he offers half of his sandwich to Jongdae and sits down, leaning against the tree, leg propped up on a textbook.

It’s almost unfair, how easily Luhan can walk into his life, stopping by his daily napping spot every day after class. “You look more tired than usual,” he says lightly one day, dutifully splitting up his sandwich like always. It’s become a thing between them, unspoken, but there.

Jongdae takes the offering gratefully and purses his lips, “There’s a big project coming up and it’s a good quarter of our grade.” He pauses. “You know, I am capable of packing my own lunch.” 

To that, Luhan pouts, jutting out his lower lip, cheeks full of food. “Just let me have an excuse to come over here and talk to you, okay?” He motions for Jongdae to lie back down and judging from the crinkle of his eyes, he doesn’t miss the flush that brushes Jongdae’s cheeks, ears.

Feeling his eyes droop, Jongdae can’t help but watch as Luhan pulls out a book, movements fluid enough to cause a hitch in his breathing. Luhan’s gaze falls onto him right as he opens to a page and he smiles, reaching forward to run his fingers through Jongdae’s hair. 

Some strands fall into his face and Luhan absently brushes them away as he turns back to his book. Jongdae falls asleep to even breathing in his ears and warmth in his veins.

 

 

Another night. Jongdae presses his pen into the paper, writing a letter he will never send, thinking of words he will never write. The paper is riddled with dots, of ink, of tears, of _I miss you_ ’s and _please come back_ ’s and of heartbleed. Everything comes to a gridlock and he puts his head down, facing the window that faces the city, apartment buildings and people lost in crowds.

He closes his eyes and all he can think of is the time in summer, when he’s close to being swept away by the bustling morning rush and feels fingers wrap around his wrist. In that moment, Jongdae is grounded for a split second—before Luhan plants himself a few inches away. Then, the world sways, his control wavers. He’s back to being swept away.

“Thought you needed a little help,” Luhan smiles at him, head tilting, “You’d think someone like Kim Jongdae would be able to stand his ground.”

Jongdae rolls his eyes and grabs one of the poles, steadying himself against a seat. The old man occupying it pays them no attention. When he looks over, Luhan’s profile is perfect, and he almost forgets what he plans on saying next.

“Yeah, okay, I could have handled it. You just always catch me at the wrong times.” Luhan mutters a _right_ under his breath jokingly and yelps when Jongdae elbows him in the side. 

When they get off the train, Jongdae is overcome with a sense of fondness as Luhan takes his wrist again and weaves them out of the station. If it weren’t so busy, he’d worry about his pulse, and the way it pounds with every step he takes, with every glance that’s thrown back at him.

If it weren’t so loud, he’d worry about how Luhan’s figure gradually becomes smaller as they walk down the street, into the light. How all he can see is Luhan’s hand pulling him forward while he looks ahead, eyes squinting, feet stumbling.

 

 

Kyungsoo stages an intervention, months after Jongdae comes home to an empty apartment, belongings slightly shifted, closet indignantly ruffled. The extra toothbrush is missing from the cup in his bathroom and he looks at himself in the mirror, searching for someone not there.

“Look, I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t friends and I wasn’t worried for you,” Kyungsoo says, plopping himself on the couch. “We’re all worried for you, Jongdae. It’s been months, and you’re still like—like _this_. You need to pick yourself back up, pull yourself together.” 

Gesturing vaguely at Jongdae’s state, Kyungsoo huffs, “This? This isn’t healthy.”

Jongdae slides himself next to Kyungsoo and curls up against his side. “I know,” he whispers, “but it’s hard, I just can’t, I can’t forget him, you know? Every time I close my eyes, he’s there.” Kyungsoo obligingly lets Jongdae pick at his sweater and pulls him closer.

“Everything I do. He was my everything. Is.”

They sit there for hours, Jongdae docilely watching the horrible movies Kyungsoo puts on and trying not to remember the times the couch occupies another. 

The times Luhan leans his head on his shoulder, bangs ticking Jongdae’s neck. The times Luhan reaches over, dragging two fingers up Jongdae’s thigh, and then his whole hand, there, and other places.

His head lifts up, lips fluttering against Jongdae’s ear the way his eyelashes flutter, leaving feather brushes against his jaw, down his neck. And then Jongdae turns his head in the slightest, and Luhan’s lips find his in the darkness.

Every time they kiss, it’s a different feeling but always has the same taste, somehow. Jongdae thinks he could kiss Luhan in his sleep and still know every one of his movements, map out all of Luhan against the back of his hand.

Their tongues touch and Jongdae swipes his across Luhan’s bottom lip, reveling as the access to Luhan’s mouth is easy. The noises that fall through Luhan’s lips are dirty, and hot, and good—Jongdae can never get enough. 

That’s when Luhan likes to pull away, pink tinting his cheeks, spit shining his lips. His hair is disheveled from Jongdae’s need to touch, his need to reach over and leave Luhan absolutely wrecked.

Jongdae’s own lips are swollen and he’s breathing heavy, pants tented against Luhan, who has somehow taken the position of straddling him. The television light shines from behind Luhan as he leans down, eyes dark, cock hard.

“C’mon pretty boy, show me what you got.” Luhan smirks, whispers, “You asked for it.” 

And Jongdae—Jongdae thinks in a haze, _I most certainly did_.

 

 

When Kyungsoo leaves the next morning, Jongdae can see the pity in his eyes, hovering between his unsaid words before he walks through the door. Kyungsoo hesitates. 

“If you need anyone, if you need anything, don’t forget we’re here. Me. Chanyeol. Baekhyun. All of us. You don’t have to go through this alone.” 

Jongdae steps forward and hugs him, burying his face in the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck brokenly, albeit affectionately, “I know.”

They separate and the door clicks closed and Jongdae faces his empty apartment yet again. He shuffles to his room, lying down against the covers, pulling the other side of them over to cover himself.

It’s a habit he has from Luhan coming home late, engulfed in darkness and lingering wisps of outside smell. Luhan likes to click his tongue tenderly and climb in next to Jongdae, easing the blanket away from him and settling it over the both of them.

Luhan settles on his side, pulling Jongdae against him, close enough for Jongdae's nose to brush his collarbone. Blearily, Jongdae closes the space between them and presses his lips against cooled skin, feels Luhan shiver. 

They drift into unconsciousness as the fan swirls above them, steadily, concretely. Luhan's profile still looks like perfection in the dark. 

When dawn breaks, Jongdae cracks his eyes open and blinks sleep away, slinging his arm over Luhan's waist. Stirring, Luhan lifts his head and tilts his head down, lazily kissing Jongdae on the forehead with dry heat. 

They get out of bed unhurriedly, skin lingering on skin, reluctance creasing sheets. Jongdae extracts himself from Luhan's limbs first and drags himself to the kitchen. 

"Extra whipped cream, please," Luhan calls from the bedroom, voice rough. Grumbling, Jongdae turns on the stove, watching as the flame flickers blankly. 

He's in the middle of flipping the last pancake when he feels arms snake around his middle, Luhan nuzzling him as he reaches over to turn off the stove. Luhan's breath is minty and he is exasperating, Jongdae remembers thinking, stealing the plate of hot pancakes straight from his hands. 

Twirling away, Luhan laughs and backs up until he meets the table, hand held out towards Jongdae, the other placing the plate down. 

Jongdae reaches and intertwines their fingers, lets himself be pulled forward. When Luhan leans over and daps whipped cream on his nose, he recoils and retaliates, smearing strawberry syrup on Luhan’s cheek. 

And then Jongdae inclines his head, moving close, tongue flicking out to taste sweet skin. He presses his lips along Luhan’s cheekbone, jawbone, down, down, collarbone, breastbone. Trembling, Luhan lets out a small noise of satisfaction when Jongdae reaches up and flicks his nipple, lightly biting the other.

He runs his hands down Luhan’s body, savoring smooth skin against his callused palms, listening to drawn breaths and feeling for intoxicated shudders.

Luhan takes his hand and slides it down, cups its against his cock and rocks forward. They find their way back into the room, onto the bed, clothes dropping to the floor piece by piece along the way. He’s splayed across the sheets and Jongdae lets his eyes run over his body, once, twice.

Jongdae resolutely slicks his fingers with lube and presses Luhan’s legs apart, thumb circling his hole. Keening, he arches into Jongdae’s touch, “Please, I want you so bad, Jongdae, so bad it _hurts_.”

So Jongdae gives him what he wants—he circles fingers into Luhan, going in cold, coming out hot. He crooks his fingers and feels shivers, feels Luhan draw in a broken gasp. Breathes out. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“Can we talk about,” Luhan grits his teeth, “your weird tastes a little—a little later. I just want you in me, fuck me, get your fingers out of my ass and _fuck_ _me_.”

It’s really not fair, Jongdae thinks, because Luhan is everything he wants and more, yet he doesn’t want to believe it. Luhan whines a little more and Jongdae forgets, presses the bundle of nerves once more before sliding his fingers out, watching the way Luhan writhes. 

In the short moment that follows as Jongdae prepares to line up, Luhan is already breathing heavy, hands twisted in the sheets, cock hard against his stomach. Beautiful, perfect, legs spread, ready.

Oh, Jongdae thinks, when he snaps his hips forward into Luhan and sees his lips curve into mouthing the same word. And after that, all he can think of is the sweat gliding down the planes of endless skin, the arch of Luhan’s spine, the place where they bend and straighten out and intersect.

All he can think of is Luhan moaning his name, the way it comes out of his mouth like it was made to. Jongdae fucks harder, deeper into Luhan and wraps his hand around Luhan’s cock, messily trying to match his pace. Their lips meet and he pumps Luhan faster, kissing him breathless, breaking away only to come back again.

Not long after, Luhan comes with a strangled, “ _Jongdae_ ,” clenching around him and drawing Jongdae’s own orgasm seconds later. He sees stars, white-hot, and when he blinks them away, the first thing that comes back is Luhan. 

And when Jongdae lies in his bed alone, time and time again, all he can come back to is Luhan.

 

 

A year has passed and Jongdae has somehow glued himself back together, broken pieces sticking out, but somehow still working. Days go by a little faster. He can sometimes catch a few hours of darkness at night.

But there isn’t a day that goes by without him thinking of Luhan. There isn’t a time when his eyes close and all he sees is nothing.

That’s the thing—he never sees nothing; Jongdae always sees bright, bright, Luhan. Never-ending, all-consuming.

He remembers a night after sleeping with Luhan, happily knowing the next morning will bring soreness. They post-coital cuddle and Jongdae holds out a key to Luhan, eyes glazed with love, bones seeped with adoration. 

Seconds tick by and they feel like centuries as Luhan looks at him with sadness creasing his mouth. He wraps Jongdae’s hand back around the key and pushes it down, between them.

Jongdae remembers feeling a little bit of him cracking at that moment, but he says nothing, pulls Luhan close.

Subsequently, within a week, Jongdae remembers coming back to his apartment empty and cold—in that moment, he feels his whole being crack and splinter and shatter. He stumbles through the rooms as everything sinks in, as the note crumples in his palm.

The note that has Luhan’s perfect writing, _I’m glad for what we had. To me, you will forever be my brightest. I’m sorry._

And Jongdae remembers thinking, _no,_ no, _you’re lying. You were always the brightest. Both of us,_ together _._

 

 

Jongdae remembers every line of Luhan’s face, remembers every way his kisses wrecked them both, remembers every affection-laced “ _Jongdae_.” 

Yet every time he closes his eyes and thinks of Luhan, he forgets how to _breathe, Jongdae_ , breathe, and breathe, and breathe.


End file.
